


Compatibility for Granted

by pinetreelady



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Makeup Sex, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:09:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2036649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinetreelady/pseuds/pinetreelady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was originally intended as a scene in another fic, but I had to cut it. I was kind of brokenhearted about losing it until I realized that it could more or less stand on its own. So. It’s porn with feelings, and little hints at a plot, but I hope it works as just a little piece of sweetness. </p>
<p>Thanks to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/elisera">elisera</a> for pre-reading and the excessive amounts of handholding I sometimes require.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compatibility for Granted

Stiles wakes up late on a Saturday morning and Derek’s up, dressed, perched on the side of the bed, looking at him with a tentative but intense expression on his face. 

“What is it, big guy,” Stiles manages from inside his blanket-and-pillow cocoon, blinking and trying to boot up his brain. Mornings, why. Really. Whose idea was this.

Derek regards him steadily. “How do you feel about kids?” he asks.

Whew. Dude’s not pulling any punches.

“Derek. What have we said about serious conversations before I’m adequately caffeinated?” Stiles bites out, and oh, shit, that was probably not the tone to take with an issue that could, conceivably, be sort of fraught. 

Derek says nothing. His mouth tightens a little and he nods once, getting up and heading out of the room.

Crap. Stiles really blew that one, didn’t he.

He goes to the bathroom, does his business and knuckles at his eyes, trying to finish waking up. Okay, that was a mistake, but it’s not like it was entirely his fault. Derek really should know better than to throw something like that at him with no warning. Or. Has there been warning that he’s been ignoring? It’s been known to happen. Stiles knows he’s perceptive, as a rule, but he can also be spectacularly clueless. Oh god. Now what. How do you do damage control in a situation like this? He winces when he hears the back door close, and he goes to look out the window, and sure enough, Derek’s running off into the woods. 

This is the drawback to getting along so well in their day-to-day life -- when something big comes up, they don’t really have the tools to handle it. 

Stiles winds up drinking an entire pot of coffee that’s strangely not all that satisfying, flavored as it is by the bitter taste of self-loathing, and then stress-cleaning both bathrooms and the kitchen, cleaning out drains and scrubbing out the inside of the fridge, getting more and more anxious the longer Derek’s gone. He made himself an enormous omelette to soak up some of the acid in his stomach, and is finally showered and contemplating dragging out the vacuum cleaner. He’s no closer to a solution, or even how to talk about their … jesus, it wasn’t even a disagreement, or a miscommunication, per se, more like an utter failure to communicate. Stiles hates feeling like this. Maybe he should take a page out of Derek’s book and just … leave. He could go see Scott, or his dad. Maybe clean the gutters at his dad’s house. 

Except that the idea of Derek coming back to an empty house makes Stiles feel a little queasy. That’s definitely not the message he wants to send to a dude whose abandonment issues still rear their head now and again. Derek’s grown to be pretty healthy, with the passage of time and some intensive therapy, but those deep-seated issues rise back to the surface at the worst times. Stiles doesn’t want to do something to catalyze that reaction, thanks. 

Stiles finally settles on changing back into sleep pants and crawling into bed, after putting on fresh sheets and throwing the others in the laundry, tablet in hand, to comfort-watch superhero movies. What. We all have our coping mechanisms, and this one’s served Stiles well for a couple of decades and counting, now. 

He keeps his phone on but he doesn’t hear from Derek. Of course he doesn’t, because Derek’s phone’s sitting at his side of the bed, plugged into the charger where he’d left it last night. Finally at 2 in the afternoon he gets a quick text from Scott, Hey, Derek’s here, just letting you know. Stiles breathes out a sigh of relief. At least he’s not, like, bleeding out at the bottom of a ravine, or treed by a savage omega. Not that Stiles was worrying. He puts his head in his hands and just breathes.

He takes a moment to be grateful for Scott, who’s grown into a really amazing alpha. He texts back a quick thanks, dude, and, a couple of hours later, when the phone vibrates with an incoming call halfway through The Avengers, Stiles answers immediately.

“Look, Stiles, you only have a minute or two here. Derek just left, and he’s heading back home. I don’t know what happened, and I don’t even want to know, really, just, I wanted to give you a heads-up that he’s on his way, but that you … might want to tread carefully. Like I said, I don’t know what happened, but … I haven’t seen him like this in years, so …”

“No, man, I get it. I fucked up, but it was kind of in response to his fuck-up. I’m not assigning blame … just, thanks for being there for him, okay? And for the … warning call now. I really appreciate it.”

“Gotta go, he’ll be there soon, I just wanted you to be aware.”

“You’re the best, dude.”

Stiles puts the phone down and curls back around his tablet, leaving an earbud out so he’ll be able to hear it when the door opens downstairs. He’d been careful to leave it unlocked. 

He’d have liked to have been able to talk this over with Scott, but the thing is, he doesn’t know what he’d say, without violating privacy and boundaries every which way. Stiles is careful not to infringe on Derek and Scott’s friendship, secure enough to let them have a relationship that’s separate from Stiles-and-Scott or Stiles-and-Derek. They deserve to have their own thing, and that includes not being policed or checked in on by Stiles. He’s not territorial, about the people he loves. Protective, sure, but he basically trusts no one more than he trusts Scott or Derek. They’re his people, and that they’ve grown to rely on each other the way Stiles relies on them? That just makes his heart full and happy.

Still, he wonders if Derek said anything to Scott at all, or how long he stayed there, if he skulked around like a black cloud, or if he put on a happy face and acted like he was just stopping off from his run to rest and to say hi. Scott’s good at seeing through a fake happy face, though. Maybe Derek just needed to get a little dose of Scott’s kids, sometimes he does that. 

Shit, Scott’s kids. Stiles sits up, smacks at his tablet to pause the movie, catches his own eye in the mirror on the back of the closet door, and thinks, Man, self, you done fucked up. 

The background indignation that Stiles has been feeling all day just kind of melts away. It doesn’t matter who was at fault, it doesn’t matter that Derek sprang this question on Stiles utterly without context or lead-up, what matters is fixing it. 

Stiles wants kids, is the thing, he’s known it for years, and he wants them with Derek, and if he’d been paying half an iota of attention to Derek, he’d know that Derek also desperately wants kids too. All Stiles needs to do is think about the look on his face when Cora had told him she was pregnant, three years ago. The thoughtful presents he chooses for the baby niece he dotes on. The careful attention he pays to Scott’s kids, even when they’re being a complete pain in the ass. His patience and his ability to communicate with them. Stiles has definitely been clueless, and he’s gonna do his best to fix it. 

Stiles hears the door open, hears Derek’s running shoes hit the floor. Figures he’s probably doing his stretches, and Stiles cautiously gets off the bed, goes halfway down the stairs, where there’s a landing, and sits. Sometimes what works for them is talking when they don’t have to look at each other. So he just starts. “Derek, I am so, so sorry. I handled that badly, and I’m an idiot, and I hope--”

“Stiles, stop,” is Derek’s tired response, and Stiles’ heart hits the floor, suddenly glad he’s sitting down. He still has moments where he worries that he’s fucked this up irreparably, and that Derek’s next words are going to be along the lines of get out of here, get out of my life, I can’t do this anymore. But he’s not done. “I’m the one who should be apologizing.” Derek comes around the corner and leans his head against the wall where Stiles can see him, even if they’re still not looking at each other.

“I should know how to bring something like that up, I … that was a dick move, to spring it at you that way.”

“Derek, I am not going to sit here and listen to you blame yourself. Because it was also a dick move to snap at you about something that’s important, instead of acting like an adult for a change.”

Derek’s silent for a beat or two. “Well, it wasn’t your fault.”

Stiles rolls his eyes at them, because seriously. “Okay, good. We’ve both agreed we could have handled it better; let’s not get hung up on who was more wrong. We’ll do better next time. We always do. And I think we have more important things to talk about than that, anyway.”

Derek approaches, climbing the first few stairs, and Stiles rises, hands twitching toward Derek, but Derek waves him off. “Let me, um. Can I shower before we--”

“Before our reconciliation embraces? Definitely.”

Derek gives him a flat look. 

“What. You stink. Go shower, and then I’ll hug you and pet you all you want. And we’ll talk. Love you.” Stiles knows he sounds flippant, but he suspects -- hopes -- the relief he’s feeling is coming through in his tone.

Derek grumbles but heads off to the shower, stripping off his shirt and flinging it at Stiles, who’s trailing behind him. It smells pretty bad, but the view is nice, and Stiles whistles at him as he catches the shirt. Derek doesn’t turn, but drops his sweatpants at the bathroom door and throws Stiles the finger over his shoulder. “Love you, too, asshole,” Stiles says, and goes to pick up Derek’s pants. He throws all the workout clothes in the laundry basket and then goes downstairs to fetch Derek some water and maybe a snack. He hesitates in front of the fridge. Should he head back up to the bedroom, or stay down here, let Derek seek him out. He doesn’t want Derek to think he’s just after make-up sex, if he hangs out in the bedroom.

He hears the water shut off and decides to just putter in the kitchen for a minute. Looks at the contents of the fridge, tries to make a plan for dinner tonight. Reminds himself that their talk has to involve BOTH of them talking. It’s a problem, sometimes, that Stiles just assumes he knows what Derek’s thinking, and talks for him, even when it’s just the two of them. Sometimes Derek even lets him, and that’s bad. He needs to shut up and listen and pay attention to Derek. He grabs their waters and goes to the couch, curling up in the corner and waiting for Derek to come down. 

“Stiles?” he hears Derek call, a moment later.

“Yeah?”

“You, ah, you coming back up here?”

Oh. “Sure.” Stiles grabs their waters and heads for the stairs. He didn’t want to presume, but he’s happy to be near the bed. Whatever. He’s a flexible guy.

He heads into the bedroom, but Derek must still be in the bathroom. He sets down their glasses and hops back on the bed by his tablet. Shuts the movie app and looks at his email.

“Babe, you there?”

“Yeah.”

Derek comes out with a towel around his hips and Stiles knows keeping his heart rate regular is a lost cause. 

“You’re not playing fair, you know. We are supposed to be having a serious conversation. You know I can’t focus when you’re all …” he waves a hand at Derek’s everything.

“Are you objectifying me? Saying I’m only a pretty bunch of muscles? Is that it?”

“Derek. You know better than that. But you also know that I happen to find you really fucking attractive, and if you’re wrapped in a little towel and all damp from the shower I’m only going to be thinking about getting my mouth all over you.” Derek squints at him, and Stiles can see the twitching of a muscle in his cheek that means he’s holding a smile back. Stiles bets that if he had werewolf senses, he’d have just smelled Derek’s arousal spike. He smirks. “Well? Got something to say for yourself, Hale?”

“Yup.” Derek deliberately drops the towel, eyes never leaving Stiles’. 

That’s never not going to be the sexiest thing ever. Stiles’ brain has just gone offline. His hot, very naked, very damp werewolf significant other just standing there, presenting himself, evidence of his arousal very, very … evident.

“Stiles.”

“Um?” Stiles can’t tear his eyes from Derek’s dick. He might have a situation where he has to wipe drool off his chin, in a minute.

“Stiles. You’re wearing too many clothes.”

Stiles knows they can’t solve all their problems by a liberal application of sex, but it doesn’t stop them from trying. They can talk after just as well as now, when they’re all relaxed and sleepy. He is totally on board with this plan. He scrambles up, pulls his shirt off, drops his pants on the floor.

“Commando, Stiles, really? You aren’t subtle.”

Stiles laughs despite himself. “Um. Pot, kettle.”

“Come over here already.”

Stiles’ legs are already trembly from anticipation and residual relief, that Derek’s back home and they’re in sync. He manages to get to Derek, though, and leans in for a kiss, resting his arms up on Derek’s shoulders and leaning into him. He can feel Derek’s arms curl around his middle and they both sway into the kiss. It’s chaste and sweet, despite their naked bodies, and Derek pulls back, draws in a deep breath, and exhales into Stiles’ neck. Stiles rests his cheek against Derek’s hair, and something settles in his chest, the anxiety of the day melting away. They can do this, they can get through it. 

“Derek, babe? You wanna move this toward the bed?” 

Derek’s still snuffling into his neck, and Stiles’ legs are unsteady with his efforts to hold his hips still, to keep their embrace sweet, not dirty, to keep from rutting into Derek for all he’s worth. It’s a battle he’s going to lose sooner rather than later.

“Mm-hm,” Derek mumbles, but doesn’t move. Stiles scritches his chin into the top of Derek’s head, then moves his hands down Derek’s sides, rubbing him gently, then resting on his hips. 

“C’mon.” Stiles pulls at him. He can’t really hope to move an unwilling Derek, but he can usually encourage pretty well. “Want me to blow you? Wasn’t kidding about wanting to get my mouth on you.”

“God, yes,” Derek sighs, and takes the last few steps to the bed, falling back into the pillows. It’s summer, he’s still hot from his run, even the cool shower he favors doesn’t really serve to lower his temperature. The dampness Stiles can see on his skin is a fine sheen of sweat. But that’s all to the good, Derek’s fucking delicious right out of the shower, regardless. 

Stiles climbs over him, bracketing Derek’s hips with his knees, leaning in to kiss his mouth, wet and sloppy. He nips at Derek’s chin then kisses a line down his neck, licks his collarbones, thumbs over his nipples, wetting his fingers in his mouth to get them slick and Derek gasps. He leans down to get one in his teeth, pinching at the other and Derek hisses. Stiles can feel Derek’s cock twitch under his ass, and pre-come leaking out of his own. God, what Derek and his reactions do to him. 

He keeps going down Derek’s torso, mouthing at his abs and the line of hair beneath them, rubs his cheek against Derek’s hipbone before taking his cock into his mouth. He takes it down as far as he can, then comes back up and tongues at the head, working the shaft with the hand he’s not propping himself up with. Derek groans above him and Stiles smiles -- taking Derek apart never gets old. He mouths at Derek’s balls, pressing open-mouthed kisses to them and presses a spit-slick finger along his perineum to his hole. He’s so, so hot there. His hips twitch up and Stiles goes back to his cock, tongueing at the foreskin and then sucking him down, setting up a rhythm in earnest. 

“I’m not gonna last, Stiles,” Derek chokes out, and Stiles isn’t surprised. They don’t fight much, it’s true, but with emotional intensity comes a vulnerability that takes the form of less control, for both of them. Stiles pulls off just long enough to say, “It’s okay, babe, I’ve got you,” and then sucks him back down, hard, going at it for all he’s worth. Derek’s twitches and whimpers just make Stiles go faster. Stiles pulls off just in time to let Derek come all over his face, which he knows is one of Derek’s guilty pleasures. Finishes stroking Derek through his orgasm with his hand. Wow, that was fast, Stiles’ jaw isn’t even tired. He makes the effort not to wipe his face, so Derek can see him this way, which he does, when he finally gets his eyes open.

“Stiles, fuck,” he says hoarsely, and Stiles smirks at him. 

“Pretty, eh?”

“You have no idea. Get up here.”

Derek wipes his come carefully from Stiles’ face with his fingers, and then on his abandoned towel, which he’d had the forethought to bring with him. Stiles curls up next to him and ruts against his hip. He winces. Too much friction. He gets a hand on himself and strokes just to relieve some of his pent-up tension, and it feels so good that he keeps going. 

Derek’s brain apparently reboots because he makes an indignant noise and bats at Stiles’ wrist. 

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Something you needed, big guy?” He keeps stroking himself steadily, but he knows his heart’s betraying his attempt at projecting calmness.

“Let me, you asshole.”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” Stiles retorts.

“Sorry,” Derek says, sounding not sorry at all, and shit, he’s lubed up his hand at some point without Stiles noticing, because that feels so, so, ahhhh, so fucking good. Judging from Derek’s raised eyebrow, he thinks he said that aloud. So what. He bucks into Derek’s hand and groans unashamedly. 

Derek’s kissing at his face, but Stiles does not have the coordination for actual skilled kissing as his orgasm approaches, so Derek moves on to his jawline, his neck. The thing is, Stiles fucking loves a good handjob. It’s perfect because he can feel the long line of Derek’s body all along his own, and he can look at Derek’s pretty face, and god, he is so, so skilled with his hands. And that lubing trick, he’s like a fucking ninja, and it feels so good to just thrust into Derek’s fist and it’s just so easy. There’s no prep, it’s just fast and easy and good and did he mention fast, because “Oh, GOD, Derek, yes, I …” and he trails off into a groan as his body seizes up and he spurts all over Derek’s hand and his belly. So good, god. 

They lie there and bask for a few minutes, Derek wiping Stiles’ come away with his towel, and then he pulls up the sheet so they can be cozy. But Stiles knows that Derek knows, too, that a talk is coming. It’s too important. No post-orgasm naps today, nuh-uh. 

“Hey Derek?” Stiles asks, from where he’s plastered against Derek’s side.

“Hm?”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “I want kids. I want them a lot, and I want them with you.”

Derek lets out a shuddery breath and just clings to Stiles harder, if that’s possible. “Me too,” he says, low, almost a whisper. “I want kids, so much, and I was so scared that you didn’t, and what that would mean for us. That’s why I was such an idiot, asking in such a dumb way.”

Stiles strokes Derek’s hair, trying to convey reassurance through the touch. “It’s so weird that it never really came up before. I think it’s that … sometimes we take our compatibility for granted. We just assume we agree about the important stuff, as we almost always do, so we just don’t talk, even when we should.”

“Yeah.”

Stiles knows that this isn’t the end, not by a long shot. There are conversations to be had about adoption and surrogacy, about werewolves, about pack and family and how they want that to look. He tucks his face into Derek's neck. They'll get there.


End file.
